hymn for the postal service

Sobriety breeds sincerity, and Lydia Pond she is my gravity. I don't
know how she felt when she took that E, but in the morning she was
shaking, she was twitching, she was jerking. On June the 5th she moved
to Paris. She could not stand the state of British politics. I just
can't convince her that I'm socialist. And every night I pray for mail
in the morning.

Sweet Lydia Pond is doing it for me, and I want to sing a hymn for the
postal service. Sinful and proud since I stopped sleeping around,
I am so faithful now to Lydia's handwriting that makes me guess the
circumstances under which she wrote it. Why she used the f-word when
she never, ever spoke it. She pasted on a passport photo of herself in
pigtails. And underneath she'd written did my touch make you less
lonely?

Oh she promised me that we'd be creasing sheets, and that our bodies
would be bruising, wrestling underneath. And I wanted to ask her how
she cut her teeth, and why she let time slip through her skinny, skinny
fingers.